


Noble Town

by saint sentiment (cmm6016)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Creepypasta, F/M, Horror, Paranormal, Parent/Child Incest, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-14 16:39:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cmm6016/pseuds/saint%20sentiment
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A bizarre string of child suicides spur the curiosity of two adult siblings. When it is discovered an old Game Boy game might be at fault, they decide to investigate. But little do they know, the Town loves its visitors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Migraine

By Melanie’s locker a group of kids are murmuring. They’re huddled in a circle, their shoulders barring entry to prying eyes.

Melanie closes her locker and looks over.

“What are you guys doing?”

None of them answer her. One of them glances back quick but refocuses attention on the group.

They loosen, and all eyes are on her now.

Melanie stills. Her attention moves to the object in the boy’s hand, apparently one worthy of intense scrutiny.

“Is that a DS?”

“No, it’s a Game Boy.” Jayden Thompson answers. Their stares are fixated on her in quiet intent.

“Do you want me to keep a secret or something?”

“No secret.” He shakes his head.

Melanie looks to the Game Boy, and back to Jayden and the children flagging him on either side. She shifts, uneasy. “Are you trying to sell it?”

“No. I just want to see who has the balls to finish this game.”

“What game?”

“It’s called Noble Town.”

Jayden flips the Game Boy over and takes the cartridge out of the bottom slot. “Here.”

“It’s –” Corey Wagner begins, but Jayden holds up his hand.

“Don’t say anything. Just don’t tell her anything.”

Jayden places it in the palm of her hand. She purses her lips. The cartridge is neon blue, see-through, and has no title, save for a strip of thin duct tape pasted over the face of the game. ‘Noble Town’, it says, in loopy, elementary school script, written in black permanent marker.

A scoff. “This is a bootleg,” she dismisses, and hands it back. But Jayden folds his palm over her fingers, closing them over the cartridge. “Don’t judge it before you play it. It’s not a bootleg. It’s a copy.”

“So you dare me, then?” Melanie smirks.

Jayden blinks dismissively, and shrugs.

“If you see it that way.”

“What’s so special about this game? Is it scary?”

“I don’t wanna tell you anything about it.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to ruin it for you.”

“Have you beaten it?”

Corey’s eyes do a strange thing. He averts his eyes for a moment, and acknowledges her again. Jayden folds his arms into his chest. Melanie can see Corey has some things to say, and it’s killing him to swallow the words. But Jayden’s word is absolute; he is the ring leader, it appears, and Melanie’s frustration grows at their unresponsiveness.

“Apparently, no one can beat it. It’s… too hard.” Corey says.

Corey’s got to be lying, or leaving things out. Melanie knows this.

She crosses her arms. “This isn’t a screamer, is it?”

“Who could put that in a video game?” Jayden suddenly snaps out of the cool, solemn state that gripped him and the others. His face contorts in annoyance. “That’s stupid stuff they put up on YouTube.”

“Well, if I start playing this game and a scary face pops up out of nowhere I’ll come back tomorrow and punch you in the throat.”

“Not necessary. Just play it and shut up.” Jayden turns, and the others follow him.

Melanie sighs and drops it in the webbed pocket at the side of her book bag. Despite all the kids still jostling around, the open lockers and the lively voices, the hallway is more desolate now. She leaves the building wondering what had Jayden so guarded and the others, especially Corey Wagner, so inexplicably tense.

 

 

 

The attic has always been an eerie place in anyone’s home. For Melanie, this is compounded. Boxes sit on top of each other, and covers are thrown over them, lending the appearance of a city of ghostly buildings. The darkness isn’t helping. The light bulb blew out months ago and since no one’s ever up here it was never changed. Melanie groans.

It _is_ here – her mother’s a pack rat and never throws anything away. If her baby clothes are up here, so is her old Game Boy.

She remembers she had a red SP. She used to have the yellow Pikachu one but that broke – she’d been so upset. Settling for a generic Game Boy hadn’t been easy for her then 6 year old self. But time and better consoles have healed her wounds. She never thought she’d be up here again, rummaging around for it.

“Mel, are you alright?” her mother calls. “Why are you up there?”

“I’m looking for something!” she whines.

Her mother doesn’t bother her after that, for which Melanie is grateful.

Finally, after a solid hour of searching, breathing in dust motes and fumbling around in the dark like a blind dog, she discovers a stiff, plastic toy box stuffed into the corner where cobwebs have wreathed its sides like a bridal veil. She checks for spiders first because she hates them with a passion, and finding none within her first inspection, dusts off the top and pries the lid off, dropping it to the floor.

Stuffed inside, asphyxiated for years, are her stuffed animals that once flanked the head of her bed. They were once a family with someone who loved them. Here, they’re little more than a coterie of neglected trinkets. Seeing how they look – their fur hard with age and fusty from disuse – she doubts they’ll ever know her love again.

She digs her arms in and burrows under them. Some of them topple over the edge of the toy box and plop onto the floor. She feels the smooth surface of her PS2, and the handle of her old GameCube, and a tangle of wires. The cracker-sized DS cartridges scatter the bottom of the toy box like misplaced bingo chips. Her finger brushes against the leg of a Barbie with matted hair. Feeling something doubtlessly square and plastic, she lifts it to her limited view and immediately recognizes the small headphone jack and empty slot on the side of the handheld.

This is it. The old, red SP she slaved over boxes filled with decade-old knickknacks for.

Melanie staggers to her feet. After having been so long on her knees, crawling around, her legs have gone numb. Her muscles wake gratefully after having been folded for such a long time. The beads in her legs begin to abate as she makes her way downstairs and closes the door to her room.

 

 

 

Marjorie sets down the plates. Simon seats himself and slides a napkin near his bowl. He grabs a knife and begins cutting into the bread in the middle of the table as she dusts herself off and heads for the foot of the stairs.

“Mel, food!” she calls.

By the time all the food is set out and Marjorie is prepared to take her place at the table, she notices that the third chair is still unfilled. She huffs and, with her fists clenched, takes herself upstairs.

Melanie’s door is closed. _She could be taking a nap_ , she considers, and turns away. But right at the first step, she decides to make sure.

She knocks on her daughter’s door. “Mel? You alright?”

No response.

Her mother sighs. Is she being ignored?

She opens the door and looks around. On Mel’s bed is the covered lump of her body. Marjorie shakes her head as she taps the misshapen blob. “Anyone home?”

“Mm,” is the muffled answer.

“Are you alright?”

“..Yeah.”

The answer is delayed, but better than nothing at all.

“What’re you doing?” Marjorie’s patience has worn thin. She tugs at the covers until they give way, exposing a slither of leg. The tugging continues, until she unsheathes her daughter. She’s playing a video game of some kind. But how can she be button mashing to a blank screen?

“Are you going to come down and eat…?”

The only indication of her daughter’s acknowledgement is the irked squint of her eyes and the slight sneer that comes afterward, as if dinner couldn’t come at a worse time, and the idea of this woman at her back asking her if she wants to eat is akin to a little brother she doesn’t have nagging for her attention.

Hand curled around the knob, she says, “I’ll just leave the leftovers in the microwave for you then…” and the door closes, leaving Mel to be engrossed in peace.

Her mother sits down at the table. At Simon’s inquisitive stare she gives him a useless shrug. “She didn’t seem very interested in dinner at all. She’s playing some damn video game.”

Simon leans back, his arms around himself, stern. “Why didn’t you make Mel come down? She’s going to be hungry later, and then she’ll be eating by herself. I don’t like the thought of Mel eating without us.”

The fork clinks against her plate. Her eyes remain downcast.

“Marj.”

She looks up. “What?”

“Is she upset at you?”

“I don’t know.” Another shrug. “Maybe she had a bad day at school or something.”

All talk of Melanie drops into the wayside and the clink of silverware starts its domestic tune. The crickets chirp throughout the darkened neighborhood, and a lazy breeze blows through.

 

 

 

“After World War II there was a steady increase of…”

Lead pencils scratch against papers. A girl turns away from Mr. Bigsby to hide her chewing. Jayden leers over at Melanie’s empty desk, and his eyes narrow. Corey hasn’t showed up today either – he had an attack of nausea in the middle of the night. That’s what his mother had told him when Jayden knocked on the door this morning.

If it isn’t genuine sickness, it’s Melanie, and the only thing Jayden can think on this point is what a pussy Corey is for getting so upset over nothing. As far as everyone’s concerned, it’s just a stupid rumor and nothing has ever happened because someone played that fossilized piece of shit cartridge.

When Melanie returns tomorrow, she’ll give the game back with a petulant roll of the eyes and a chide about wasting her time. This Jayden can count on as surely as he can count on a third-rate dinner tonight.

This whole rumor mill erupted only a few weeks ago, and everyone’s been spelling death about it in obscure Facebook posts and grammar-absent text messages between gossipy girls. But it’s stories like these that have to be spread to fill in the dull hours of mandatory education; otherwise there’ll be little else to occupy the swath of adolescents in this school.

Just like Kimberly’s herpes and the pedophilic high school janitor, this game’s history has been cheesily contrived by a ring of bored children in the school lunchroom. A little while from now and all memory of it will fade from the minds of these children who don’t have long attention spans to begin with.

And Kid Zero, above it all, is complete and utter bullshit.

 

 

 

Marjorie steps in her daughter’s room and sees that Mel’s bed is disheveled and looks like it hasn’t been made in days. Not to mention that Mel herself is still lying on it, mashing away.

“Have you taken a bath?”

Mel doesn’t answer.

Marjorie, at a loss, looks to the windows, seeing that all the shutters have been closed and the curtains drawn over them, keeping out all the light. But Mel has always loved sunlight. In fact, she’d been a real outdoorsy kid until just a few days ago, when she came home with that game. What’s up with her?

“You said you weren’t feeling well.” She folds her arms. “It looks like you lied to me. All just so you could play that damn game.”

At that moment her mother sees that Mel has her headphones in and hasn’t heard a single thing she just said.

“Melanie.”

She nears the bed.

“ _Mel_ anie.”

That’s it. This is gone on just about long enough.

She pulls out her daughter’s headphones and yanks the Game Boy from her hands. Melanie screams like she’s been pinched by a jilted classmate and swings her legs off the bed. Her hands clasp her mother’s arm, yanking it toward her, trying to wrestle the Game Boy from her mother’s hands.

“Give it!” she shrieks.

“What has gotten into– _Melanie_!”

Melanie’s nails scourge her forearm and it feels like being raked by a clawed cattle prod. Her daughter’s hair is tousled and she’s never seen Melanie this enraged. Is this even Melanie?

“God, Melanie!”

“Give it, you fucking cunt!”

Melanie punches her breasts and she staggers back.

She shields her chest from the subsequent blows, but with every landing, Marjorie cries out like she’s the defenseless child being beaten by a drunken father. By some miracle she wrings free of her daughter’s grip, shutting the door in Melanie’s face and quickly trotting down the stairs. Her heartbeat thumping in her ears, she rounds the corner and hits the living room, where Simon has the newspaper on the table and is scanning the classifieds for used furniture. Her mind is swimming in a sick flurry. Between the shock of Melanie ever using such force against her and the terrible knowledge that her daughter even knows words like that – it’s all too much to process right now.

“Simon – she’s gone crazy,” she breathes.

“What?”

“Melanie. She-she never attacked me before. She _attacked_ me!”

“She _what_?”

“She just wouldn’t let go of this fucking game! I don’t know why she’s so angry but I can’t get her to come out anymore! She’s using this to escape!”

She shows him the cartridge. Simon stands and struts past her, taking no mind of it.

Melanie’s door swings open and she can hear the shuffling of footsteps turn to loud thumps and crashes.

Then screaming. Melanie’s screaming.

_Cunt._

Is she really hearing this?

Marjorie covers her mouth as her eyes water. Uncontrollable trembling washes over her, and no matter how hard she tries to still herself, it doesn’t work. She plops down on the couch and palms her face as she hears the crash of CD’s and books and the shouting of obscenities that no one would ever suspect a girl of her age knew how to string together in a sentence. Marjorie thinks of pills and a therapist as her door slams and Melanie responds by locking it almost immediately.

Or a counselor. _Someone_ who can talk some sense into Melanie, because she fears it just might be beyond their control.

Simon comes down with marks on his arms and the ire of a dragon. His glasses have been pulled from his face, leaving his face unnaturally vacant with a mixture of bewilderment and anger struggling in his features.

“Wh—” Palms outstretched, imploring an answer he doesn’t have. “What the _fuck_?”

Simon hasn’t cursed in years – neither of them have, but the furious confusion has them shaken in a way they’ve never been before. Simon can hardly believe what’s passed is even based in reality. There’s nothing more he can say without restating the same astounded questions. Instead, they stare at each other in thunderstruck silence, unable to answer to his wife’s streaked, reddened face.

 

 

 

“She’s so angry now. She didn’t even want to talk to me.”

As the girls whisper Corey can’t concentrate on his food. Jayden has his chin in his hands, feigning boredom but acutely attuned to everything spilling out of their mouths.

Melanie’s name hasn’t been uttered, but who else could they be talking about? Who else lied to their parents about being sick and instead holed themselves up in their room for three days doing God knows what? Apparently they’re even going so far as to say she hadn’t bathed or ate in all that time. You could almost believe it. He’s only seen her pass by once in the hallway but those few fleeting seconds were enough to catch the hollowness under Melanie’s eyes and her tired, waned figure.

And yes, at the very least she looked really annoyed.

There have been rumors going around about Melanie’s parents locking her in her room and only opening it for dinner time, but it’s hard to separate fact from fiction when the subject in question hasn’t spoken to anyone since she was forced on the school bus this morning. She was allegedly in the counselor’s office for all of Homeroom and 2nd period, and since then, she hasn’t uttered a word.

To keep up the façade of lunch, he takes a few sips of his chocolate milk and sets it down, glancing at Corey and then sweeping his eyes all over the lunchroom.

“We should get it back from her.” Corey whispers.

Jayden sees Corey’s tray has been untouched.

“Can you calm the hell down? What’s the matter with you?”

Corey’s stare grinds into him hard.

“This isn’t a game anymore, Jayden.”

“Do you believe everything the kids say or have you always been this stupid?”

“Melanie’s a mess. You can’t just—”

“Alright, alright! I’ll get it from her after school. My locker’s right by hers.”

“You better.” Corey swallows and bores his blank stare into the wall. The voices of the children drone into incoherent buzzing in his ears.

_If I can get a hold of her,_ Jayden thinks.

 

 

 

Her desk is occupied, but it might as well not be for as much as she’s paying attention. Her thousand-yard stare allows kids to double take or even openly ogle her eerie detachment. Mrs. Hendrickson isn’t veiling her curiosity too well herself. Melanie Waters is a object of eccentricity and everyone wants to capitalize on this moment because they know they’ll have something to gossip over between classes.

He can only think of how weary she looks. Sleep deprived, irritated, and looking wholly like someone else. He wonders if she has the game with her and is angry because she can’t play it. This is what he’s hoping, that she has it somewhere on her person, because if she doesn’t—

_No one can beat it. It’s… too hard._

At 3:10 the bell rings and students pour into the hallways. Jayden remembers what he said to Corey in the lunchroom in that instant and piles his things into a messy, papered heap, heading out as fast as a classroom of bodies through one doorway at once will allow.

In the hallway, the lockers are open like doors left ajar, and kids are lounging by the fountain, running past him, laughing and carrying on, but there’s no Melanie to be seen. A mild fear rises in his heart. His legs are taken with the immediacy of searching for her, but he can’t find it in him to move.

Everything has been pointing in the direction of the legend and Corey’s words are making his paranoia swell.

He hates having to face that Melanie is nowhere to be found.

And neither is the game.

 

 

 

Soft violet light filters through the transparent curtains. With the early morning the anxiety rushes back. Marjorie’s heart can’t choose a rhythm. Simon rests next to her, snoring, as he’s been doing since she first shared a bed with him. She envies his ability to fall asleep after events that have kept her tossing and turning all night.

She places her feet on the floor. The alarm is set for 5:30 since Simon works the dayshift. She doesn’t want the day to start this way. She only wants peace and silence, but she knows that can’t be.

The shower soothes nothing. She can hardly handle the fear she has for Melanie. The last time they spoke was Monday night, dinnertime. She’s not even sure it really counts as a conversation, but at the very least Mel wasn’t hitting her and swearing like an abusive boyfriend. It is Thursday morning. The least Melanie does anymore is get up in the morning and get on the bus. After that, she comes home and locks her door. Not a sound passes through there in that time, not until it’s time to get ready for school again.

Not even to go to the bathroom. Not even to eat.

Marjorie has been so struck with fear she hasn’t even had the gall to go in there.

Simon has urged Marjorie to leave Melanie to herself and hope she’ll come around.

So far Melanie’s been putting up one hell of a fight.

She pads to the bathroom shelf above the toilet and takes the brush. She combs through in a series of swift, rough yanks. Tears begin to brim, and she takes the back of her hand to her cheek and swipes it away. Her cheeks are reddening and becoming blotchy regardless. She wraps a towel around her hair and gently pats it, sniffling.

There’s no light coming from under Melanie’s door. All is quiet.

Light floods the room as she opens it a crack. Her heart beats faster.

_Cunt._

She shakes her head, puts her fingers to her lips.

Even through the darkness the shapes of objects in Melanie’s room are still discernible. The curtains are still drawn. Melanie is wrapped in the sheets. Marjorie sighs, sitting on the edge of the bed. She places her hand over Melanie’s shoulder.

“Mel…” she whispers, “I don’t know if you can hear me, but I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so mean, I… I just want you to know that—”

The square light of the Game Boy is visible through the covers, like a ghostly eye. She peels off the covers. As she expects Mel’s fingers are wrapped around it like she fell asleep playing it.

But how? She didn’t hear Melanie come out of her room at all after she came home from school these past few days. Mel would have had to sneak into their bedroom to get the game—and she’s _sure_ she hid it very well. How in the hell did Melanie find it without making a peep?

She knows it can’t be any of Melanie’s other games when she sees the screen is blank. Her heart thumps once, and she lifts up the bottom of the Game Boy to see that the slot is filled by a see-through blue cartridge.

_No._

She put that game in the drawer after their fight a few days ago. There’s no way she could have snuck into her room and got it. Not without Simon or herself hearing her. Melanie didn’t even know where she put it—

Marjorie nudges Mel’s shoulder. When she doesn’t respond, Marjorie turns the lights on.

“Alright, Mel, you wanna tell me how you snuck into my room and got—”

Only now does Marjorie catch at how odd an angle her daughter’s head is turned.

“Mel..”

_She’ll wake up with a sore neck,_ she thinks, until she moves the Game Boy and sees little white capsules strewn like PEZ candy across the comforter.

_God._

She rips off the rest of the covers. Melanie is in yesterday’s school clothes. Even her sneakers are still on.

Her chest isn’t rising or falling.

Right by her hip, where a little heap of pills rest, is the open bottle of Acetaminophen Marjorie uses for her migraines.

Simon is startled awake by a scream down the hall, propelling him upward, forehead sweating and breathing hard. The space beside him where his wife usually occupies is empty. It is 5:04.

“Marj?”


	2. Wake

Gina has her arms around their mother in the living room. In the kitchen, Justin leans over the countertop, his knuckles pressed into the marble.

Their mother’s disjointed sobs meet Gina’s shoulder as they rock back and forth. Gina can’t think of anything to say. No one’s ever died in their family aside from their grandparents when they were too young to remember, so her and her brother are unaccustomed to grief, much less how to mourn for outsiders. Consolation has never been her strong suit.

Her mother’s grief seizes her in a chokehold that she doesn’t think it wise to break. At length, their mother pries her wet cheeks from Gina’s shoulder and rakes at her face with her fingers, aggravating her rosaceous flush.

“Uh..” Gina scratches her nose, “How did Melanie die?”

Her mother gives a helpless shrug. “Pills, she said... Marjorie told me she’d been acting funny a few days before she died. She kept playing some old video game, and wouldn’t come out of her room. Maybe she was bullied?”

Justin emerges from the kitchen as their mother’s anguish begins anew and she collapses onto Gina again. He puts his hands in his pockets. He can’t choose where to look.

Gina gapes stupidly at the crown of her mother’s head.

“She kept playing some old video game and then killed herself? Morbid shit.” Justin remarks.

“Justin,” Gina presses.

His eyes squeeze shut. “Shit, sorry.”

Gina turns back to their mother, tucking her fringe behind her ears. “Are you going to be okay, Mom?”

She sniffles and nods. “Yeah.” She takes her attention to Justin. “Just you… Take care of your sister, okay?”

Justin’s half-smile is pained. Somehow, Gina doubts the authenticity. Justin is almost never serious, and feelings aren’t his strong suit either – in fact, he’s about as bad with expressing emotion in times of distress as his handwriting is atrocious.

“I will, Mom.”

_Take care of your sister._ The tune that still comes around like the old ice cream truck whenever they visit Mom’s house. What a joke.

Gina shakes off these thoughts because it isn’t right to think about things like this when someone’s child has just died. Truth be told, she doesn’t know what to make of it. None of them do.

 

 

Justin hangs the car keys in the key hook near the door and walks to the kitchen. They hadn’t been at their mother’s house for the better half of an hour, and already Gina is depressed and agitated. The idea of a nap appeals to her as Justin opens a cabinet and his eyes scour for snacks to occupy him. She doesn’t want to have to think about their bereaved mother or the unsettling end of a middle schooler any longer.

Gina sits at the bistro table and flips through the mail.

Gina realizes he’s only been sifting through the mail as a way to distract herself from the awkward visit.

Justin rubs the back of his head with his palm. “So, uh… that’s some crazy shit, isn’t it?”

Gina’s palm is curled into her chin as she scans her tuition bill. Another pain in the ass aside from Justin.

“Well, I mean, I didn’t know this Melanie girl, but how does a 12 year old commit suicide?” he asks.

“Yeah.” An overused affirmation, but the only one she can offer at this time.

Suddenly, terribly (because it _is_ terrible) she doesn’t want to mourn anymore.

Justin slips behind her and wraps his arm around her. He used to grab her in a chokehold when they were younger just to piss her off. Justin loves it when she’s pissed off, which is probably why he used to go out of his way when they were younger to make her stomp her feet and yell for Mom. Then she realized that what all the girls say about boys that annoy them is actually true, and that _fuck, my brother is in love with me_ is the least of their problems if Dad finds out.

She’s glad to say the years of anxiety and shame and covert after-school fucking has passed. He’s 26 and she’s 22, and their apartment is their own now, and it’s all water under the bridge. Except when they have to visit Mom’s house.

Gina worms out of his arms and places the mail back in the napkin holder, heading for the stairs.

“Oh come on, Geen, don’t do this. I’m trying to help you,” he calls. But they both know he’s only trying to get laid.

He follows her into the bedroom, where she’s lounging on a bean bag chair near his consoles and is connecting the Wii.

He slaps the sides of his thighs in exasperation. “What’re you gonna do now? Ride out the pain with Super Monkey Ball Banana Blitz?”

Against her better inclinations, Gina’s hands press into the edge of the shelf where the TV sits and heaves of laughter double her over.

“Ass!” she throws back. “I’m watching Netflix.”

“Ooh, two curses in one sitting. That’s a record for you, Geen.”

“I only curse around you.”

“And why is that?” he swings around a Wii remote by the wrist strap.

“Because you’re the only person that pisses me off enough.”

“I feel special.”

“You _are_ special.” She grumbles, clicking the Netflix starting screen. While the titles load, Gina assumes the poise of the Thinker without being aware of it.

“Her parents were probably dicks,” he says.

She snaps out of it. “What?”

“I said her parents were probably dicks. You know, never letting her go anywhere, dragging her to church every Sunday, shit like that.”

“That’s no reason to off yourself, Justin.”

“Teens always kill themselves for retarded reasons.”

Gina shakes her head. It’s insensitive, she thinks, but to Justin, it’s only the truth.

“I want to know why.” She murmurs, as Justin clicks ‘Resume S4: E9’ on _Breaking Bad_. The episode and the others that come after are watched in relative silence.

Sadly, she can’t be coerced into sex, and so he goes to bed that night with a sour twist wallowing in the bottom of his stomach. Gina lies on the opposite end, a bar of sheets between them, staring at the wall.

A text comes from their Mom on Justin’s phone around 11:30 at night. They’ve got a Wake to attend this Thursday before Melanie goes into the ground Monday afternoon.

Justin considers, before he turns his phone off, that he should save the buzz kill for the morning, when Mom calls Gina anyway because she never trusts Justin to tell his sister something important in a timely fashion.

 

 

Despite the guest that are dabbing their noses and wiping under their eyes, and the halls flanked with pictures of Melanie, Justin is bored out of his mind and wants to go back home. Gina looks bored herself, walking around without any particular aim, glancing here and there.

Their mother talks to Marjorie while they float around, offering condolences whenever forced to by rotating guests. Then out of the corner of his eye, Justin spots Trevor Sampson. His Adam’s apple is prominent, sticking out almost at a curvature and depending on the angle, he can look like he’s suffering from goiter. Gina has said that he’s passable, but not entirely attractive. He’s currently single, and with Gina being the nearest girl that he keeps in contact with, he of course has a crush on her. That makes Justin sneer involuntarily sometimes, but at least he can pass it off with remarks like ‘You don’t want to date my sister. She’s a total bitch.’

Trevor has a glass of wine in his hand, looking awkward, and nodding to anyone who throws their glance his way. Justin wonders why he’d even be at a place like this. How does he know Melanie or her mother?

Suddenly Trevor spots him and moves over to him at a rushed pace.

“Hey! I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, I gotta show you something, man…”

On the other side of the room, Gina meanders. Someone sniffles, and suddenly she doesn’t know where to look. It’s awkward to watch people cry. Especially when your own eyes are dry. What to do?

She looks across the room and sees that Trevor, an annoyance to her, has taken her brother aside and they’re whispering rapidly. She shakes her head. They’re not talking about Melanie, Gina’s sure of it. Halo 4 or porn, probably.

She turns to see a boy pad up the stairs. His mother warns him to stay out of the rooms.

Trevor falls away and Justin approaches her. He swallows.

“You alright?” she asks.

“Yeah, yeah,” Justin responds quickly.

The Wake commences with Melanie’s relatives giving short speeches on her behalf and a succession of heartfelt goodbyes afterward. Justin has Gina unnerved by how quiet he’s been ever since he talked to Trevor. When is Justin ever serious about anything?

 

 

Justin has one hand on the wheel and the other at his teeth. Gina has her earbuds in. For a while the ride home is silent, but Gina pauses the song and removes the buds from her ears because she just has to know.

“Are you alright? You were really quiet after you talked to Trevor.”

Justin shakes his head, thumping his fingers on the wheel.

“It’s just… Trevor told me some fucked up shit at the wake.”

He faces her fully for just a moment.

“I don’t think this is the first time this has happened.”


End file.
